Blood And Honey (36 page)

‘Not a break exactly. Call it therapy. Call it anything you like. Am I
that
unattractive?’

‘You’re lovely. I told you.’

‘Thanks … but that’s not it, is it?’

‘Not what?’

‘Not what’s keeping you –’ she nodded ‘– in those things.’

‘You’re right. It’s not. Listen. Tell me something. You were fucking Victor. Wishart’s idea, his treat.’

‘Sure. And mine.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I enjoyed him. Not the screwing necessarily but the guy himself. Africans are like kids. They can be dizzy, off the planet. Some of them are seriously arrogant. But they’ve got something we haven’t. Is it sunshine? Is it the Rift Valley? Is it the music?’ She beckoned Winter towards her, kissed him on the lips, unbuttoned the pyjama top and gently traced a line between his nipples with a moistened fingertip. ‘Have you ever been to Africa?’

‘Never.’

‘We should go. Soon.’

‘We?’ Winter barked with laughter. This woman was like a crime scene. She had to be controlled, taped off, analysed, understood.

‘Yes …’ She was evidently serious. ‘We. You needn’t sleep with me. You needn’t feel threatened. But you’re a bright man. Africa will teach you stuff you never even dreamed about. You want me to tell you about Rimbaud? You think it might be time for that?’

Winter hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Rimbaud was a face on a T-shirt.

‘Your Victor …’ he began.

‘… was a great shag.’ She eased herself away from him. ‘You want me to be honest? A
really
great shag.’

‘You told Wishart that?’

‘No, but I bet Victor did. Maurice didn’t have much time for competition. Still doesn’t.’

‘So why did he….’ Winter was struggling to find the right phrase ‘… buy you for him?’

‘It was a boast. Fake solidarity. What’s mine is yours. Except it didn’t work out because I quite liked Victor.’

‘More than Wishart?’

‘Maurice was powerful. Is powerful. Like I’ve told you, that has its charms. But Victor’s funny and Maurice doesn’t do funny.’ She studied him a moment, her head cocked to one side. ‘You know something most men never understand? Laughter is the real turn-on, the real aphrodisiac. Show me a man who can make me laugh and I don’t care what size dick he’s got. Victor was perfect.’

‘I bet.’

‘Don’t be neurotic. Listen, we were talking about Africa. I’ve still got a bit of money tucked away. We could do it – take a flight, couple of weeks, whatever you can manage. Change your life, I promise.’ She reached for him again, cupping his big face in her hands. ‘Those headaches of yours? Gone. Blown away. New perspectives. Lots of laughter. Lots of everything. Does that sound too daunting? You think you could cope?’

Winter gazed at her for a moment. He’d slept in this bed for the best part of twenty years. It held all kinds of memories, not all of them happy. There’d been nights, too many nights, when he’d roll back in the early hours, reeking of booze and cheap perfume, oblivious to the pain these small acts of treachery might inflict on the woman beside him. From time to time Joannie would erupt, retire to the spare bedroom, threaten divorce, tell him he was a greedy fool, but the marriage had somehow survived. Since she’d gone, to his bewilderment he hadn’t touched another woman. The opportunity had been there, all too often, but in ways he still couldn’t fathom it had become impossible to betray her. Married, he’d cheerfully shag anything. Alone, a widower, any kind of relationship seemed fraught with menace. Now this.

‘Let me …’ Maddox took his hand. Instinctively, Winter recoiled.

‘Lakemfa pissed Wishart off,’ he said. ‘I need to know why.’

‘Ask Victor. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not.’

‘He’s dead.’

The news silenced Maddox. She asked if Winter was joking. Winter shook his head. Maddox stared at him for a long moment, then plucked at the sheet and covered herself. Winter explained the circumstances as gently as he could, but when it came to the hit in the darkened lane the best he could manage was a cold recitation of the facts. Lakemfa had nearly made it to the top of the hill. Someone had hit him from behind. Falling, he’d fractured his skull. End of story.

‘And you think Maurice did that?’

‘I think he probably paid for it.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Exactly. But I need to know why.’

Maddox was shaking her head. Her eyes were moist in the semi-darkness. She began to say something about Victor Lakemfa, about how considerate he could sometimes be, but the memories overwhelmed her. She reached for Winter again, then changed her mind and rolled over.

‘Fuck,’ she whispered.

Saturday, 28 February 2004

Ryde Esplanade was busy on a Saturday morning. Already, barely nine o’clock, shoppers were spilling off the buses in the seafront terminal and there was a queue of cars waiting to drop passengers for the hovercraft crossing to Portsmouth.

Faraday paused to check his ringing mobile in the bright, cold sunshine. It was a number he didn’t immediately recognise though the voice, when he finally answered, put him in a position of some embarrassment. The woman who’d given him a lift home from last weekend’s celebratory wake, the woman whose mother had sent him Harry’s letters. But what on earth was her name?

‘It’s Karen Corey.’ She spared him the trouble. ‘I thought it’d be better to leave this call to the weekend.’

‘Oh?’ Faraday had stopped on the seafront, arrested by the sight of a huge container ship nosing up the deep-water channel towards Southampton. ‘How can I help you?’

‘It’s about those letters. Mum wondered whether she could have a word.’

‘Now?’

‘We were thinking tomorrow if you could spare the time. Mum goes to the spiritualist temple at ten. Maybe the afternoon?’

Faraday apologised. He’d be tied up all weekend
and probably most of next week too. Might he give her a ring when things had eased up a little?

‘Of course. I’m really sorry to have bothered you. Mum’ll be mortified.’

‘That we can’t meet?’

‘That I called you. To be honest, all of this is my idea.’

‘All of what?’ Faraday was on the move again, looking for a break in the traffic to cross the road. Despite the pressures of
Congress
, Karen Corey had aroused his interest. Again.

She was still apologising. She was sorry to have disturbed him. Best to leave the next call to Faraday.

‘But what’s this about?’ Faraday asked again. ‘Just give me some kind of idea.’

With some reluctance Karen began to talk about Harry. There were one or two issues her mum wanted to resolve. For Madge’s sake, and for her own.

‘But why involve me?’

‘Because you’re a detective.’

‘Are we talking something criminal here?’

‘I don’t know. None of us do. But that’s the point, really. We’re after advice and little me thinks you’re the man who might be able to help. How’s that for cheeky?’

Faraday thought about the proposition for a moment or two. He could see the turning that led to the police station now, up at the top of the High Street.

‘I’ll be in touch.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And it’s Joe, by the way.’

The Major Incident Room at Ryde police station was up on the first floor. DS Pete Baker met Faraday at the top of the stairs. The outside inquiry teams, he said, had already been dispatched to Bembridge. He’d
gridded the edges of the harbour and the rising ground behind and assigned the house-to-house calls accordingly. DCs Barber and Webster, meanwhile, were already interviewing residents at the nursing home in Shanklin.

‘Pelly?’

‘Good as gold. Met them at the door, even offered a pot of tea.’

‘How about Scenes of Crime?’

‘Ongoing, sir. Webster says they’re starting on Pelly’s own quarters this morning. Then it’ll be the garage and the rest of the stuff outside. They’re estimating getting shot of the bulk of it by close of play Monday.’

‘Anything to show for it so far?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

Faraday and Baker were joined by DS Dave Michaels. He’d been downstairs, talking to one of the desk clerks.

‘There’s an old boy came in a couple of minutes ago. Name of Castle.’

‘Wally Castle?’

‘That’s him. We tried for a statement first thing but he wasn’t interested. Not unless he could have a word with the guvnor. The lads drove him over. Thought it might be important.’

‘Of course. Give me ten minutes, eh?’

Faraday walked down the corridor towards his office. Wally Castle was the fisherman who’d first noticed that Pelly’s old boat had gone. What else might he have dredged up from those October days? Faraday stepped into his office. Amongst the messages awaiting his attention was an earlier phone call from Brian Imber. The circuit judge in Winchester had fallen ill overnight and been carted off to hospital. Imber was
having to make other arrangements to acquire the Production Order but had meanwhile taken a call from another ex-squaddie who’d served in Vitez. This man, a sapper like Pelly, was only too pleased to mark Imber’s card but had no interest in committing himself to a written statement. Under the circumstances Imber had decided it was worth a trip to London. If Faraday thought that was a bad idea he had until half nine to head him off. Otherwise, the meet would go ahead.

Faraday lifted the phone. Imber answered on the second ring.

‘Do it,’ Faraday said. ‘We’ll sort out a statement as and when.’

‘Fine.’ Imber was evidently already on the train. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’

Faraday hung up. The first of the HSU teams had left a report on his desk. Pelly had spent the night at the nursing home. The surveillance teams changed shift at 05.00 and the lads on the next watch would doubtless be in touch.

Faraday studied the report for a moment or two, then reached for the Policy Book, wondering whether the expense of the HSU was really justified. Everything he knew about Pelly told him that the man was all too aware of the investigative options at Faraday’s disposal. Letting the SOC team waste the best part of an afternoon boshing the wrong boat had been a classic spoiler. Would someone as vigilant as Pelly really be reckless enough to pay a visit to a key potential witness?

There came a knock at the door. Faraday looked up to find Dave Michaels with an elderly man who peered at Faraday with some interest.

‘You the boss, then?’

‘Mr Castle,’ Dave Michaels explained. ‘Come down specially.’

Michaels stepped out of the office and shut the door. Faraday extended a hand. Castle ignored it. With his bright eyes and shock of snow-white hair, he reminded Faraday of a bird. An egret, maybe. Faraday judged him to be at least eighty.

‘You mind?’ Castle found himself a perch on the chair Faraday kept for visitors. ‘I was in half a mind not to come but what’s the harm, eh?’

Faraday offered tea or coffee. Castle said no to both. He wanted to sort out this business about Pelly. He’d no intention of keeping Faraday long. He plucked at the creases in his trousers, big raw-knuckled hands, joints swollen with arthritis.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What’s the bugger done?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mr Castle, not until our inquiries are complete. It may turn out to be nothing. Who knows?’

‘Serious though, eh? You don’t put this many men on the ground. Not on a Saturday. Not without good reason.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Still not going to tell me?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm …’

For a moment Faraday thought the old man had finished. He’d simply come over to find out what Pelly had been up to. Once a fisherman, always a fisherman.

‘You know Mr Pelly well?’

‘No.’ The shake of the head was emphatic. ‘Nobody does.’

‘But you see him around?’

‘Of course. Even at my age, you take an interest. Always have, if you want the truth.’

‘And what do you see?’

The old man was gazing up at the wall board. Imber had brought over one of J-J’s colour shots from Faraday’s Pompey office, a little domestic gesture that Faraday had found oddly comforting.

‘Gannets.’ Castle nodded in approval. ‘Saw a couple once, off the back of the Wight. Bloody rare though, round these parts. Keen on birds, are you?’

Faraday nodded. Nothing would have pleased him more than a leisurely chat about the RSPB reserve that stretched south from Bembridge Harbour but he knew this was neither the time nor place.

‘I understand you’ve something to tell us, Mr Castle. Am I right?’

The old man’s gaze returned to Faraday. He wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to land anyone in trouble.

‘Like who?’

‘Can’t say. Not without you telling me it’s all OK. That’s the point, see?’ He jabbed a bent finger in Faraday’s face. ‘You get my drift?’

‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. This is a major inquiry, Mr Castle. You have my absolute assurance that we take everything in the way of information extremely seriously.’

‘That’s as may be but it don’t answer, does it? See …’ He bent forward and tapped Faraday on the knee. ‘What I’m saying is this. I can tell you something about somebody and that somebody might not thank me for it. Especially since he’s my nipper.’

‘We’re talking about your son?’

‘We might be. Depends. You tell me it’s going to be OK with him, and I might see my way to telling you one or two things. Now then.’ He leaned back and folded his arms. ‘What do you say?’

‘Does he know you’re here? This boy of yours?’

‘Never.’

‘You think you might get him into trouble?’

‘Dunno. Might, I suppose.’ He shrugged. ‘You fellas would know best.’

Faraday eyed the old man for a moment, trying to gauge what kind of deal he was after. Finally, he suggested they talk in confidence.

‘What does that mean?’

‘You trust me.’

‘And that son of mine? You’ll see him right? Handle it personally? Yourself?’

‘Depends what he’s done.’

‘He’s done nothing, see? Just a favour, that’s all.’

‘A favour for who?’ Faraday paused, beginning to sense the drift of this strange conversation. ‘Pelly?’

The old man nodded, his eyes bright.